


Suspenders

by FLWhite



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: Holmes takes a bath. Watson makes good use of menswear accessories.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Found some old drabbles on the computer and figured "why not"?

The first time, it was all rather messy. 

It was after a match, and Holmes was freshly emerged from his bath; Watson had rolled his eyes and stridden into the bathroom after knocking three times, to look for a missing sock--a sock and nothing more, he vehemently told himself after--and found the little cubicle of a room dark. 

He faced his friend's back, its ridges and nooks all shadowed in gold from the light of the streetlamp pouring in a single unadulterated beam from between the curtains. He swallowed. Holmes was buttoning his trousers; over the edge of the draining tub (whose noise had concealed Watson's entrance) his suspenders hung, little black serpents. 

_Foul tempters_ , Watson mumbled, but without much vigor. Now Holmes was shrugging. Why? Why was he shrugging, forcing his sleek muscles to slide like that--his skin to pucker at the milky scars--before he had quite realized what he was doing Watson had with one hand seized the grinning snakes, clattering their buckles against the enamel of the tub. 

With the other hand he seized Sherlock Holmes at the wrists, easily done since the latter was in the act of pulling up his trousers by the waist. That was the first time Watson had truly given thanks to God for creating him a solid three inches taller than his friend; he had only privately chuckled at it before. With these inches he leaned forward with all his might and pressed Holmes against the bathtub's edge. 

"Oof," said Holmes. 

"Quiet now," replied Watson in his most professional register, though his entire frame shook like an engine going to bits. "Don't move a finger."

With surprising docility, Holmes obeyed. "What are you doing?"

"Quiet, I said." One firm hitch around each wrist, then a tight running bowline to fasten both together; the ends he let drop to the backs of Holmes's thighs. The buckles clacked together as though actually laughing. "I am experimenting."

Holmes turned at this to fix Watson with a leer. "Indeed."

"Right then," said Watson, and shuffled the suspenders from his own shoulders. "Subjects are not to make quips, jokes, or remarks of any nature." He threaded one still-warm strap between Holmes's legs, then closed the figure eight ferociously tightly. The other he looped around the damply heaving waist; it left just enough room for him to grasp the ends with a fist. 

"Ugh," Holmes panted. "Can't breathe. Watson."

He pressed forward until they were both well over the precipice, their faces half a foot from the swirl of lukewarm water. "Watson?"

"Do shut up," he said--the voice hardly sounded his own--and raked the delicious-looking back with his teeth, only hard enough to draw a few lines of pink into the landscape of dark and lighter gold. 

He sucked on the bottom of a shoulder blade. 

He bit the hard triangle of trapezius, followed it with nibbles up to the jaw behind the flushed ear. 

He felt the shoulders tense, trying to push back against him, and gave the suspender around Holmes's waist a slow mastering tug. 

"Now, now, stay put." He eased the fingers of his left hand between Holmes's hip and the top of his trousers. 

The febrile heat of his friend's arousal burned his palm. "Stay put." When at last the trousers were tangled but effectively eliminated and he stepped with half-shut eyes to resume the attack, one of the brass clips glinted at him from around Holmes's wrist, as if winking.


End file.
